I'm a soldier under your command You have but one
by Shrike
Summary: Jajuka's memories. Dilandau centered. NEW CH UP! Before DS were assembled
1. Poor thing Your hair has been cut off

Here's an idea that came to my mind. This should be Jajuka's tale, I mean from his POV, but not strictly following the series and definitely fragmentary, like memory or stream of thoughts is. Sometimes even confusing. No romance, no lemon, no alternate happy end. It will be Dilandau centered though (hell, you can't forget old habits that fast :), lots of cookies to 'tea time' readers/reviewers).  
  
Ok it's very late (or very early in the morning) here, and this chapter is only my basic idea, so don't be too rash in flaming me or getting turned away. What I want to know is whether you like this general idea i.e. should I keep writing this fic?  
  
Oh, and guess what - I don't own Tenkuu no Esukafuroone (or Escaflowne, if you don't like katakana :))  
  
////////////////////////////////  
  
"Poor thing. Your hair has been cut off. . . "  
  
I remember the first time I saw her - little blonde girl practically abducted from her fifth birthday party. Only five years old and so tiny I felt she could sleep in palm of my hand, she bore the very essence of misery in fragile body. Her tears stung. I swore I would never get emotionally attached to any of these unfortunate children again; it's been only two months since little boy entrusted to me died. And the way he died. . . his haunting, bloodshot, terrified eyes are still awakening deep dread inside my heart. His name didn't matter - names were given to privileged only after they were evaluated as successes; until then they were mere numbers. Any notion of personality had to be eradicated in order to treat them as objects more easily and without guilt. Not that Zaibach's sorcerers had any to start with. So number 19 died on these very hands one dawn, after endless night of monstrous screams and uncontrolled spasms. Seeing that little being dying such a horrible death, helpless, alone, half-crazy from fear and pain made me swear never, ever to remember their names. I mean, their REAL names. They were all better buried and forgotten in anonymous, same-sized, unmarked graves in gray Zaibach soil.  
  
I knew it was a question of days till they find a new child for me; I was so sure I was prepared for cold approach this time, especially when I was told this one was to be yet another secret experiment. I knew what that meant - all I could do is pray this little one would die more quickly and with less pain, because both were inevitable in coming. I was shocked when I learned this time it's a little girl; Zaibach soldiers usually picked only stronger boys when abductions were arranged. This could only mean that they have become desperate - more bad news for this unfortunate child. Desperate situations call for desperate actions, and I didn't even want to imagine. . .  
  
I failed at the first sight of her. Failed to keep on cold facade and treat her as disposable specimen. Number 23, my little Celena. . . She was so scared and helpless, turned longingly to meager rays of sunlight that fell on cell floor trough painfully small window. She still smelled like meadow and fresh wind she raced when they took her away. Celena. . . Why does she plead so desperately - this IS your home child, from this moment on, until you. . . they will kill her soon, this way or the other; she will never be the child I met that day, more than ten years ago.  
  
It took all my courage to enter her cell and bring some food that first day. How could I ever apologize for what had happened and what was still to come? She was doomed, better off dead. Captured boys never cried - they were taught differently; taken from streets where they already learned what law of the strongest was and how little good pleading did in situations like this. But the girl was different; gentle and loved, missed, precious to somebody. Her tears stung, and my first thought was to kill her then and there - one fast and merciful blow and she'd have peace forever in place where no one could touch her. I somehow wish I had done it when I think of hundreds of lives I could have saved before he. . . that red-eyed boy . . . took her place. Sometimes I curse myself for thinking such nonsense; how could I even think of killing that child that was my gentle Celena, my only love? 


	2. Don't! Don't take her! Cerena!

YAY! Here I am again. WHOA, ppl some of you even liked the first chapter (when I read it next morning I was like: what was I thinking!? but when I read your reviews, I wasn't so embarrassed any more :)). My ego bows to you deeply :).  
  
Feye Morgan - HEEY, nice to see you again (. Dammit, your MacBeth is better than the real thing! You will get a big, fat review from me because you damn well deserve it. HEY, ppl, if you haven't read that story - JUST DO IT (nope, I don't own the Nike company :) ). Tnx 4 R&R!! (~_*)V  
  
Unintentional Nightmare - wow, what a cool name :). Thank you for reading and reviewing; there will surely be plenty of Jajuka's monologues in the future. I kinda imagine this as his storytelling_by_fire thingies :)  
  
One more thing - I realized it could be misleading; Jajuka doesn't LOVE Cerena as a woman. . . you know what I mean. I don't want to write the 's' word cos I'll have to change the rating, and I'm too damn lazy to do that. HEH :)  
  
////////////////////  
  
  
  
"Don't! Don't take her! Serena!"  
  
  
  
They didn't start with their 'work' on her right away; on the contrary, we were both allowed a considerate amount of freedom and prerogatives unimaginable for captives (which we both were, each in his own way). Those I count among the happiest days of my life; Cerena too seemed to relax and forget justified fears. Maybe that's just the reaction they intended to provoke - to lull her into facade of fake calm. A cat and mouse game. Maybe they wanted to form a bond between the child and her chaperon, a bond which would also be chain to tether her to Zaibach's side. Or to protect her from insanity afterwards. . . Maybe that's even the truth, now that I think of it - those scarce happy memories from Zaibach could have, in some ironic way, overpowered countless bad ones that followed. I don't know. Maybe I really AM the reason Cerena made it. . . if what's become of her could be described that way. However, if that's the truth, I feel no guilt - I was a helpless pawn, who at least tried to make her happy in any way he could. It doesn't matter anyway - some things should never be dissected or analyzed, but cherished and lived trough, aware of the feeling - and that's exactly what I did with Cerena then. I considerately gathered our seconds, days of happiness as fragments for mosaic of my memories because I knew it wouldn't last long. Good things never do.  
  
  
  
The day the experiments started - the day the end began - unexplainable, dreadful premonition jerked me violently from sleep. Animal's sixth sense, some would say. After all, I am partly beast - a 'beast-man' they'd call me in insults. Stupid humans; after all I've seen of their doings, I'd say that 'man' is a real insult in that scold. Against all reason and sane mind I raced to her room without anybody's permission, order, or at least consent. I caught up with dozen of soldiers somewhere in halls - can't really remember where - my mind was blurred, half-crazed after I discovered Cerena's empty bed. I didn't know where they took the unfortunate children, so I ran trough mazes, shouting at the top of my lungs, going in circles for what seemed to be eternity. Deep inside I knew it was hopeless - Zaibach palace was gigantic and I was never allowed to walk freely about - but I couldn't stop; I just couldn't afford to! If I did, I'd admit defeat, admit I've given up on her, abandoned, betrayed her. I owed this to my Cerena!  
  
  
  
It may seem a horrible thing to say, but her thin, crying voice echoing trough stone halls around me was the most beautiful melody I heard in my life. And so I caught up with them - so many soldiers just to take one helpless child to scaffold! And not just any child, but this daughter of freedom and light that couldn't hurt anybody if she was forced to! I could feel my blood boil! Of course, I stood no chance - but that was not important. When four grown men finally knocked and pinned me down with great effort and dragged that angel away, the look in her eyes told me it was worth it. Under all that pain, fear and tears I could clearly see understanding. She knew she could rely on me, believe in me, trust me. That moment seemed prolonged, like frozen in time - she recognized me as a friend; she silently entrusted her life to this beast-man. It was the look that signed my willingly chosen death sentence.  
  
  
  
Weeks have passed since I finally had a chance to see her again. They never punished me for the violent excess. . . maybe it was just a proof they needed to see if they have succeeded in creating the bond/chain. But I dreaded the worse; they were too involved with Cerena to think about some ridiculous, emotionally unbalanced beast-man. In fact, so involved with her that she wasn't sleeping in her room any more, was nowhere to be found along with the whole Zaibach sorcerer council - everybody suddenly disappeared. And life went on.  
  
  
  
I didn't recognize her. Warm, blue irises were smiling at me but I didn't react, thinking it was only my wishful thinking placing Cerena's eyes on some stranger child's face. Until I realized there are no children in this dark, cursed place. It WAS her, Cerena! Golden locks were shaven clean off and, with her simplistic dress that more resembled a bed sheet than girl's gown, she looked like a puppet. I picked her up and let her swing up and down in air the way she liked, trying not to show my shocked grief. She was a lightly built child, even for a girl, but her weight now seemed non- existent. The neck, hands, waist - so thin and fragile. Absence of her hair, rich in volume, only increased the mournful impression - Cerena was a shadow of her former self. Only eyes seemed to be alive, telling me just how happy she was to see me again. The eyes were still hers, she was still there, the look of unconditional trust was still meeting my gaze. Thank gods. . .  
  
///////////////////////////  
  
hope you liked this one dear readers :). Review please; it really does help with writing agility :)  
  
One more bidding: check out a recent poem of mine 'Cage'. It is not under Escaflowne because it has universal theme. . . you'll see. Hope you like it. Opinions are most welcome here as well. Doomo arigatoo gozaimasu :) 


	3. How could you touch something so innocen...

Ok, I'm back! :) I have lots of reading and writing to catch up with, so here's something for a start :).  
  
*breaks and enters into Feye Morgan, Unintentional Nightmare and M's rooms, hugs them and flies away, before anyone could write down melef's license plate number* he he he  
  
////////////////////////////  
  
"To ruin a child's mind. . . How could you touch something so innocent and pure, obscure? . . . "  
  
- from The Cranberries' song -  
  
  
  
Living is constant compromising. Living is never entirely black or white. Living is balancing what you want with what you can get. In days that followed I was painfully reminded just how ironically ambivalent life can be.  
  
Cerena had 'appointments' with sorcerers almost daily; what they did and who 'they' were was not only avoided as a conversation subject - it was taboo between us. She shut herself up every time they came for her and again, in different but just as adamant way, when she'd return to me. She suffered pain and sadness, but would never willingly discuss what inflicted them. I never insisted; she must have had good reasons to forget and there was no point in making her re-live it all over again. With me, Cerena was eloquent and almost cheerful, open and curious little girl. The moment Zaibach solders would come to take her away she'd hardly utter a word and obediently follow. One thing never changed; glimpse of crystal-blue gaze, with subdued terror, searching for mine. A reassuring strength; she was not alone, she had someone to return to, someone who'd wait and be here for her, expecting nothing of her, asking no questions. I always strove to appear calm and secure then, but my heart was in tears of dread and flames of rage. And helpless.  
  
  
  
Two entire sets of conduct, feelings and attitude of such incomprehensible contrast existing in one head weren't my main concert at that time. That was only her way of coping with dark, pain, abandonment, fear - I thought. It wasn't conscious or deliberate; it was the only thing she could do; her ultimate resort. I didn't care which defense mechanism she had to raise in order to stay sane - I didn't care as long as I had my Celena, little innocent girl, when she was with me. If I had only known what was conceived then, in back of her mind. . . A twisted mirror-image; essence of her urges and instincts but bared of her emotions and character - a personality of reversed self. Black where she was white, prospering where she withered, rejoicing where she was saddened, laughing where she'd cry. The 'he'. . .  
  
  
  
And yet another ambivalence of those days; our time together. Seeing her meant one thing - the sorcerers had overestimated her strength. She was sent to me when she was too exhausted to participate in further 'sessions', so I was the one who'd nurse and put her on her feet. . . and on their table with straps again. If I got a chance to be with her, it involved seeing her suffer and fade day after day. I hated myself for helping her then; helping her heal and thus speeding up a day of recovery - the day she'd be put at mercy of their claws again. What was I to do? Watch her hurt with my hands crossed or not see her at all, but know she's probably healthy and well - well enough to serve their purpose or whatever demonic reason they had (It can't have any excuse or justification whatever it was). It was hardly a choice.  
  
She had grown, and grew leaner yet. I just couldn't figure it out then - children do grow fast but this was really too much, and not to mention circumstances she was under. I know now it was not a natural growth, but a physical change she was experiencing. Cerena wasn't aware of it though; she was too tired to notice, too broken to care. By that time some of her hair had grown back, but never again golden as it used to be. Terror, fear and constant pain had taken their toll - her locks were grayish-white, as she were an old, old woman. She aged too fast; not only physically, but mentally as well. Cerena became too serious, too stern for a child of her age, be it a child-prisoner in Zaibach or not. And there was nothing I could do to change that. I was losing her - her words became scarcer, smiles fainter, sleep longer, interest in world around weaker. Sometimes silent company was better though - rare comments she made in cracked voice were anything but optimistic. Crying and screaming damaged her vocal chords so severely, she scared herself when opening mouth to speak. The Zaibach bastards succeeded; she was slipping out of my hands into herself, into darkness, into their dominance. I would rather die than say it out lout then but I knew her fight was nearing an end. And still, she lived on. Hardly recognizable as person I knew as Cerena, but she lived. Then - after I accepted the inevitable and already started grieving this loss - then was the first time I remember thinking about this emerging new being. Who was the invader conquering her body, wrenching it from her?  
  
  
  
I wish I never had to find out.  
  
  
  
She screamed that day again. The sound of horror pierced my brain and I was half-expecting to see windows and mirrors of palace shatter in million pieces. Her voice, unmistakably, called and called for hours like it would never cease or grow tired. And it never did, in a way - it still rings in back of my head, haunting and restless. They paid no heed and just went on and on and on. I don't know how she survived that day. Eventually, she was muffled with piece of fabric stuffed in mouth, but only after she bit her tongue so hard they feared she'd faint and bleed to death. Not only did they need her alive for their 'sessions', but conscious and aware every second of the procedure. I knew that, everybody in palace did - when 'appointments' were taking place, halls and rooms of basement and ground floor were echoing Cerena's cries. After that this silence seemed worse. And it was.  
  
  
  
To my surprise, I was called to take her to her room after they were done. I never entered sorcerers' operating chamber before, and would never go in willingly if it weren't for Cerena. She laid on narrow table with fresh red marks, turning to dark purple on her wrists and ankles. There was blood everywhere - on bare stone floor and table, from her mouth and nose, from where rigid leather straps peeled off delicate fair skin, from her fingers. . . She couldn't get up by herself and that's why I was called - to carry her away after 'successful' session. Shaky, hallow breaths filled the whole cursed room as she waited for some strength to return. I kneeled beside, dreading to touch her in fear she'd shatter under my fingers, sad and furious at the same time. Wave of anger swept me away - I was yelling in her face, shouting, screaming:  
  
WHY did you have to fight them all the way?? Do you want to die!? You cannot win, you simply CANNOT win! DO YOU HEAR ME! DON'T FIGHT THEM, GIVE THEM WHAT THEY BLOODY WANT! They will hurt you worse every time until they get their way! YOU CANNOT WIN CERENA! YOU CANNOT WIN!  
  
I lost it, completely lost all control. I never yelled at her before - the very idea of raising voice in her presence was unthinkable - she needed all the love and affection she could get. I fell silent, ashamed, fearing what will happen next. But she, my brave girl, just gave me faintest of faint smiles. She didn't want to scare me, but she wasn't fooling me either - her strength was gone, resistance broken. She was broken. Did my words of anger manage to do what sorcerers had been trying all this time? Did she give up because her friend and guardian deprived her of his support? Was this whole scenery - her vexed, barely living body left for me to see - a preplanned stage? Was I only a tool AGAIN? I have often wondered would it have made any difference if I silently picked her up and nursed back to life then, instead of breaking her last resistance with harsh words. . . I don't think it would have. HE was already sleeping somewhere inside her, turning and stretching, growing more impatient to wake up and get out. Cerena's days were numbered and HIS time was just beginning. HE was an accident waiting to happen.  
  
  
  
I cannot imagine how much effort it took just to open dark and heavy eyelids that day - although I didn't know it then, it was the last time she granted me with that shimmering blue gaze. My child, my beautiful, brave Cerena! I couldn't tell her everything would be fine. My voice would give me away and weep if I were to open mouth. Besides, I wasn't fooling her either - defeat was written all over my face. She knew me as I knew her. We understood each other; words were needless. She winced in pain as my hand closed over her tiny, blood-covered fist and hid broken and twisted nails.  
  
  
  
Parallel scratch marks her fingers dug in flat surface of that table were tomorrow the only thing left to witness Cerena ever existed.  
  
  
  
//////////////////////  
  
Something special for all beloved coffee-maniacs out there; there is something you might like :) I recently added a humble contribution called 'Ode to coffee' to humor section of original fiction, so go look, see :).  
  
Needless to say - R&R kudasai :) 


	4. The boy

M, Feye Morgan (hey when is new chapter of Macbeth coming? :)), Ron and his Sakura, Unintentional Nightmare - ARIGATOO GOZAIMASU!  
  
sorry it took me this long to write a new chapter - you know, whatever you try to do, life just seems to get in the way :). Anyway, Ron I appreciate the spelling-check suggestion - I know my English is horrible, but writing fics is the only place/time I use it, so I'm really struggling here :). I'll try harder, tnx :)  
  
on with the story. . .  
  
////////////////////////////  
  
  
  
I was lingering in her room for no rational reason at all; even the emotional longing and emptiness I was experiencing were awkward in a place like that - bare of all her belongings and personality. Everything had changed - curtains, arrangement of furniture, even sheets and blankets on bed - everything. It seemed the room was prepared for another experimental child. I sat on small bed with my head in hands, lost in thought and grief, staring empty at the door. But why another child? Didn't Cerena survive? Waiting for her here was hopeless and pointless, I knew, but still I decided to stay until they order me to take care of another unfortunate child. Call me sentimental, call me blindly loyal - hell, me a stupid old dog, but I just couldn't let go. And then - the door opened and a child walked in. It was she but somehow not entirely. With one hand still on doorknob she inspected the room coldly and methodically. No indications showed she remembered this as her room. I could feel hair on nape of my neck stand bolt upright as - after it circled about - her gaze fixed on me. Red eyes. Lava wells where placid blue lakes used to be.  
  
"Cerena" - I reluctantly called and flinched at obvious fear and distance in my voice. The child approached and we stood face to face, at arm's length. It wasn't Cerena, it wasn't a girl at all. It seemed like her features have somehow eerily melted with this stranger's face and body, and she was now trapped behind these piercing red eyes that were locked to mine, staring, scorching my soul. In utter terror I stood up pushing the bed behind me and moved away from HIM. "What are you?" - escaped my lips, but I was sorry the moment I said it. It was just a child; small and fragile standing before me. I thought I was overreacting, that I let irrational impression take control of me, that I acted hysterical for no reason and that it surely wasn't the child's fault. I took a deep breath and begun to apologize, when I met that chilling gaze again; the boy didn't react. Against all my expectations, he wasn't hurt, discouraged, saddened at all - he didn't even blink. That's when I truly understood I lost Cerena forever and yes, I wailed spontaneously, even to my surprise. Violent sobs came from nowhere and shook this strong body like it was no more but leaf on mercy of a wind.  
  
The boy, Dilandau, didn't respond to all emotions - my disgust and horror after seeing him for the first time created no effect, but when it came to pain and fear, it was a totally different story. The boy watched on intently while corner of his thin lips slowly, slowly - as a feather falls to the ground - raised in a smirk. But that was not the worst; the look in his eyes . . . even though I witnessed it, I still cannot conceive how can a child's face attain such cruel expression. It cut like a knife. The boy amused himself by examining my broken posture; even though I was 5 times his size, he was somehow managing to look down on me. After he got bored he simply pivoted on heel and left the room in silence, apart from clings of his boots on stone floor. They were given to him from the day one - it was the first footwear he saw and the only one he ever wore. Dilandau left the room to continue his walk trough halls of palace that brought him here in the first place; a walk that became his immanent routine - heavy, firm footfalls emphasized by hard boot-soles, soon accompanied by discreet clinging of long sword and creaking of leather uniform. He roamed trough daily, with eyes flashing venomously left-right like whips - he was combination of a trapped animal and budding strength of youth feverishly looking for trouble.  
  
I lost all respect in his eyes - from that encounter on, I was invisible to him; too irrelevant to be bothered with. I took care of practical, mundane needs and tasks so he could practice and improve as a soldier without any petty disturbances. The Dragon slayers, when they were assembled, just followed their leader's example; sometimes even his cruelty.  
  
Gentle Cerena was dead and every trace of her erased from this world and minds of people - she was living only in my memories. She delivered HIM in pains of birth, so to say, and when the screaming and pleading ceased calculated calmness of his virulent red gaze was far worse.  
  
Pain - Dilandau's first memory. He was born into it, it became his second nature. To some point, he was even immune to it. Not that he wouldn't feel the sensation - he'd just coldly register without ever giving in to it. Pain was such a regular part of his everyday life, he'd actually feel its absence as anomaly. It's said to be his middle name in those days - a joke among his guards, but nowhere near innocent or groundless. Zaibach modified Cerena's love of life into love of death in Dilandau, and simply directed it towards the enemy - at least, that was the plan. And gods did he crave pain; broken glass, knives, swords, ever rose-thorns. . . without others to inflict suffering upon, he'd hurt himself. If there's any truth in saying that all people need others around them to survive and stay sane, I guess this would be Dilandau's way of fitting in the proverb. He needed others to avert his unnatural destructiveness from himself.  
  
Of course, that meant that usual corporal punishments, no matter how severe, didn't work on him. Not that he didn't need iron-hand discipline - he was produced to hate and destroy, but to focus that demonic nature according to Zaibach wishes and interests was a totally different story. That's where the sorcerers came in again. Persuading, threatening, promising, depriving - nothing worked. Dilandau was stubborn beyond sane reason; he'd oppose just for the sake of it. They didn't hit, slap or punch him - after several incidents, even the stupidest of stupid saw how little effect that had; even after fainting under blows he'd still wear that daring smirk. As once with Cerena I was the one who, with sweat drenched gauze, cleaned trickling blood from his grinning lips. Milk teeth that he didn't lose that way were soon shattered on floors of training rooms in countless, exhausting hours of practice. Continuing with physical force meant killing him. The sorcerers had reached dead end at that point; I even allowed myself to hope they'd give up and leave him alone.  
  
But, far from it.  
  
Zaibach didn't want to break him, but mould his mind - and so they, again, found a way. Instead of inflicting corporal pain, they moved to different, much more vulnerable realm - his mind. It was tenebrous rooms with single source of light focusing on narrow strap-table all over again. After that he obeyed, turning all helplessness and anger that accumulated inside towards any target Zaibach pointed out. Brave as she was, even Cerena would break down and plead from time to time, but not the boy. His silent acceptance of whatever they put him trough was blood chilling; he'd just scream after some point - when attacks to his mind became too much to bear - but never, ever cried or asked them to stop. He just didn't know how to shed tears or beg. Neither did he want to.  
  
Cold look in his eyes that sharply followed everything happening around him was eloquent enough. Hate and death for us all were chiseled in cold stone that they were.  
  
////////////////////////  
  
  
  
hope you liked it. . . :)  
  
Needless to say - please review and come again :) 


	5. The perfect soldier

Feye Morgan - yay, thanks for reading and reviewing regularly AND for encouraging my writing in English. It really means a lot *hands over couple of tulips* (hope you love tulips :)). Am still impatiently waiting for that last Macbeth chapter though :)  
  
Ron and his Sakura - big THANKS to you too :). Am somewhere halfway trough 'Asturia: Love and duty' - and I like it! You definitely will get my opinion on that, but I can already say it's a great thing that you two have - writing together. wow! Oh, and I LOVE Kenshin too!!  
  
M - ah, you already know everything :)  
  
on to the story. . .  
  
//////////////////  
  
Dilandau had been trained hard from the first day on, pushed and pushed to the utmost. Thin as a strand of grass he was, but just as resisting; the body gradually built up muscles and grew in hight without ever losing agility or speed he possessed from the beginning. Month after month he less resembled Cerena and was more obtaining face and posture known to many as Zaibach's warlord prodigy. One thing didn't change over the course of time; his character. Dilandau was the same cruel, vile, insensible, stubborn child from the moment he was 'born' till the day he died.  
  
He was drilled, hour after hour, for days, months, years. After forced to obey Zaibach, Dilandau was the most attentive and smart disciple one could ever wish for. He discovered sweet taste might and superiority brought and was very motivated to accumulate more and more of anything that promised him dominance. It was his driving power, his reason for living. The sword was his best and only friend he took everywhere, even when the blade's length was almost his own size. Steel was reliable, people weren't.  
  
He's had many teachers throughout his training years, but never exchanged a single word of warm familiarity with any of them. They were only tools to his ascend, a current menace, a necessity - nothing more. Although all were grown and wise men, carefully picked for this task, he held no respect for anybody. In best case they'd only bore him. I believe they were plainly afraid of him and diabolical nature Dilandau never bothered to hide or control. In his eyes the world belonged to him anyway.  
  
Martial arts was not the only field he was raised to become an expert in; he was also taught logistics, battle tactics, strategies, weapons, types of terrain, Gaen history, politics. . . Unbelievable, but true - even basics of court etiquette, psychology, negotiating and medical aid. Of course, he was the one who chose to ignore the latter - but aren't we all deciding which lessons to remember and which to forget from our school days. Five years he trained alone; five years he hasn't seen another child or played, talked, spent time with somebody of his generation. Nevertheless, he never acted like he felt younger or inferior among best experts and generals on Zaibach court. On the contrary; he ignored most of them, while others were granted interest only as long as they had something to teach that was, in his opinion, useful at the moment. He definitely never saw them as people; living, unique beings. Dilandau listened and learned silently at first, but as time passed his strength and impatience grew and he was soon merely tolerating teachers' presence - they were more than happy to leave him alone after explaining what he wanted to know. Not that he ever asked - he was always demanding, barking out orders, practically ripping anything he wanted out of people.  
  
He was taught to walk over dead bodies to reach his goal. He was given knowledge, and later means, to destroy anything or anyone who stood between him and his ambition. He was never given the right perspective of the mankind and its values, he was never shown his true place in this world. His truly valuable virtues, characteristics and abilities were shut out, along with smallness all people feel when put against the rest of the world. He was served a sick picture of his own importance and omnipotence, oversized Ego and categorical right to act upon his, already morbidly twisted, judgement as he pleases. Of course, as long as it doesn't interfere with will of Zaibach. He couldn't see human life as precious because no one ever showed any respect towards his own life and existence. Later, he made people respect him, but that was only an insufficient compensation. Not only did he love himself immensely - suffering from the worst kind of hopeless vanity - Dilandau forced himself upon people, made them acknowledge his achievements and might - but it was all done in wrong way. He filled void inside him with emotions of others; emotions he provoked in worst of ways with worst of means. Fear, pain, subordination, power; he didn't care how or what as long as they were present in eyes of people that trampled over each other trying to get out of his way. It may sound ugly, but I've seen ecstatic glow in his eyes too many times on occasions like those to even think he was destined to a peaceful end. I'm only surprised he hasn't killed himself or any of us sooner. Dilandau had many enemies, out of hate and fear, even in the palace; they called him an animal, freak, beast behind his back. Many wanted to see him dead, be it death of peak and pride of Zaibach technology and science or not.  
  
And still . . .  
  
I couldn't hate him. In a way I knew how he felt being different - my way of dealing with disparaging looks was other than his, that's all. Besides, I knew what lied beneath - I could still see Cerena in her total opposite, and that gave me patience to serve him all these years. And hope.  
  
Although he was never obliged to swear loyalty towards Zaibach empire, he was its most reliable tool. Yes, a tool because he never asked questions or wanted to know anything but bare, necessary information, never pondered on 'shoulds' and 'should nots', never put Dornkirk's orders and politics in doubt - a perfect soldier.  
  
Or so it seemed. . .  
  
I've never heard him speak of Zaibach as his homeland; he had no feeling of belonging here, no patriotic passion, nor did he feel gratitude or any form of affection towards anybody, including myself. He was always cold and practical when discussing strategy, troop maneuvers, battles - he was merely doing his job and was let to live and enjoy benefits of his station. A station he earned by hard work and, literally, blood and sweat. . . and without ever a word of pride or respect. He loved nothing - he could lose nothing; no weak points, no worries, no questions as long as Zaibach kept their end of silent bargain -a reliable, dangerous tool with only one purpose.  
  
He was never allowed out of palace - Zaibach couldn't risk him starting to enjoy common, normal life and people or seeing anything more than military training, fighting and prevailing. Dilandau was simply not allowed anywhere near healthy emotions, relationships, conversations or human touch. If he started to feel longing for family and friends, Zaibach would have to start all over again and Zaibach had no time for that; the war was obviously preparing and Dilandau was it's biggest hope. He found an important place in Dornkirk's visions of the future, that was made clear to all of us, and was too valuable to lose. Besides, by then it was far better for the people outside that Dilandau was locked away from them - civilians was a notion non-existent in Dilandau's vocabulary. Since he was deprived of healthy sense for value, they would only be annoying insects standing in way, as it later proved to be exactly the case. When it came to Dilandau people were either hated with rare passion or invisible and, thus, not worth mentioning.  
  
After five years sorcerers decided to give their greatest success a toy - a group of boys, all about his age, to test his authority, strength and leader-instincts. They gave him the Dragon Slayers.  
  
////////////////////  
  
I hope to have next chapter soon, until then review please - it's always helping to hear your opinions. Thank you! 


End file.
